


Lightning in a Bottle

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, M/M, Pre-Relationship, both pre- and post-timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21815647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Ferdinand practices magic under a watchful eye.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 6
Kudos: 159





	Lightning in a Bottle

Ferdinand waves his arm with a flourish, shouting an incantation into the empty training hall. Its echo is his only response. The chalk circle on the ground does not glow, and not even a curl of smoke rises from its kindling. 

“That setup should have made this child’s play,” he mutters, scratching his head. He has studied enough theory to earn high marks, but not high enough. Their class has the steepest competition in magic tests; not even Edelgard ranks first, and if there is anything he should excel in, it is his future liege’s weakness. Still, competition is the core of nobility, and he must not yield.

(If Father saw the scores, would Ferdinand be ousted? Or would a bribe boost him overnight? Either would be unbearable.) 

He must admit, Hubert scores some of the highest marks, but he would rather grovel at Edelgard’s feet than ask Hubert’s aid in producing that inky sludge from some unknown abyss. Perhaps Lorenz would help... 

A prickle at the back of his neck makes him whirl around. “Hubert, I cannot concentrate with you lurking about. Do you not have something better to do?”

Hubert leans against a pillar with his arms crossed. Were Edelgard around, he would not dare keep such casual posture. 

“Concentration isn’t your problem. Lady Edelgard’s neck is on the line if you intend on repeating such buffoonery in battle.” The idea seems to please Hubert, as if it is not Edelgard’s neck he imagines. Ferdinand puffs out his chest.

“Not to worry. I am still perfecting it.”

“Not even dedicated mages achieve perfection. Why bother with something so clearly not your strong suit?”

 _Why bother_ never graces Ferdinand’s mind. But _not your strong suit_ repeats each time he takes up a new pursuit, finding a private place to waste eggs or peek around corners or fall off a wyvern, all for the end of being considered _handy_.

Apparently, waiting until only fireflies occupy the training grounds does not ensure privacy.

“A true noble is strong in all suits! I admit, there are a few areas in which I have room to grow, but that is only an opportunity for improvement.” 

“I will never understand how you take pride in your failings. But by all means, show me how many nobles it takes to light a lantern.”

If the way Hubert looks down his nose is supposed to discourage Ferdinand, the challenge only bolsters him. He chants until his face flushes and sparks scatter from his fingers like fireflies. If he were alone, perhaps he could indulge in the progress, if only for the jolt of energy in his palm, but Hubert’s cackle burns his ears. 

“I will be sure to call upon the noble house of Aegir the next time I need a letter scorched,” Hubert says before oozing away. Ferdinand wants to point out that magic is one of Father’s few specialties, but he does not dare give Hubert the satisfaction.

* * *

Borrowed red robes swish around Ferdinand’s feet as he adjusts his stance. It is difficult not to fuss with the fabric draping from his arms and torso. At the war’s start, he missed silk shirts and summer outfits. Now he needs the weight to stay on the ground and out of his head, to focus on the next enemy, the next step.

Not that the company he keeps these days makes focus possible. Hubert carries himself like a minister even without Edelgard around, his arms folded behind him as he observes Ferdinand. 

“Is it not enough,” Hubert asks, “to boast proficiency in most melee weapons, mounted combat, armored movement, battalion leadership, military tactics...”

The heat that spreads to Ferdinand’s ears would have been useful were he still attempting fire. “Have I not begged you to refrain from complimenting me aloud? And no, it is not enough. Enemies lurk out of my range. My friends bleed while I am helpless to close their wounds. I—it is not enough.”

Was it not only yesterday that Bernadetta’s arrow struck an assailant Ferdinand’s sword could not reach? Was it not the same battle that Caspar collapsed out of Linhardt’s range, barely holding on while Ferdinand hauled him behind the front lines? Was it not Petra who covered Ferdinand then, narrowly evading a fireball Ferdinand could not help her ward off?

Was it not Edelgard who winced upon their return, the crack in her brave face revealing what her armor hid, until Dorothea dragged her to the infirmary? 

Hubert’s appraising gaze holds something soft. Ferdinand does not know what to do with it, but he does know what to do with Hubert’s quiet command: “Try it again, then.”

Ferdinand turns back to his target. With silent movements, Hubert appears behind his shoulder, his voice low in his ear. “You treat your chants like one of your dramatic speeches. Don’t focus overtly on them. They are but a whisper, tempting power.”

“I see.” He’s only more conscious of his speech as he quiets it. “And my movements?”

“Stiff. Think less of your usual combat maneuvers and more of your footwork when dancing.” 

When did Hubert take note of that? Surely not Ferdinand’s clumsy, twirling skips to the opera house as a child, the one time he dragged Hubert there. Surely not in their school days when Hubert was like as not to flay him in his sleep. And surely nobody watches him waste time practicing in otherwise unoccupied training grounds—but with dread, he remembers that waiting for the fireflies does not ensure privacy.

“It is not so complicated as you are thinking,” Hubert says, snapping Ferdinand back. “You are a conduit for power; the only movements that truly matter are those that help you loosen up and aim. Drama is not required.”

“I suppose that is why you spin in midair during battle.”

“It helps me survey the field. Are you going to practice this or not?”

Hubert remains behind him as he lifts his arm. Though they don’t touch, Hubert’s presence provides as much weight as any armor. Energy crackles where his fingers ghost beside Ferdinand’s elbow. The boundary contains Ferdinand as his arm flows in and out, his lips whispering a chant that melts away when Hubert moves with him, the dance jolting him with a frisson both magic and not. 

Lightning cracks in the open air, striking the edge of his target. It’s gone in a flash.

Panting, Ferdinand sags. He chokes out a laugh, his chin brushing frizzy hair as he looks over his shoulder. Hubert backs up just enough to evade him.

“Imperfect aim,” Hubert says, but his eye holds approval. “Once more.”

Their dance ended, he steps away. His attention is enough to keep Ferdinand charged as he begins again. 


End file.
